


Don't Run Away

by thestairwell



Series: Black Dust [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blaine Anderson/Others - Freeform, Blaine Anderson/Sebastian Smythe - Freeform, M/M, Parallel Universe, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestairwell/pseuds/thestairwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Black Dust, Kurt wished that he'd never met Blaine and he was taken to that very parallel world. The Blaine he searched out was damaged and hurt – and this is how he became that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Run Away

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so very sorry that this has taken me so long to publish?? Honestly, it's been sitting in my hard drive for literal years, completely ready to go, and yet...
> 
> For any newcomers, it's not _vital _that you read Black Dust first because this is more or less a prequel and all the information you need to know is in the 'summary' above - but I would recommend it, as the two stories fit together really well. (Content warning: Sebastian is a shitface and his actions negatively impact Blaine's self esteem, self image, and self worth. I don't use the angst tag lightly.)__
> 
> __For any returners, I really am dreadfully sorry that this has taken me so long. Special kudos to all the people who've commented even very recently pushing for this to happen. I hope it lives up to your expectations._ _

_He doesn’t sleep. He feels Kurt’s tense body gradually relax and is glad, at least, that his betrayal doesn’t take a night of rest from Kurt, but he can’t and won’t find that brief relief himself. He’s felt sick for weeks, listless and selfish and **broken**._

_His nightmares of the past few weeks have been full of Kurt; Kurt moving on, Kurt dismissing his high school boyfriend, Kurt being (rightfully) surrounded by an endless crowd of admirers who are tall and chiseled and wear mesh tops and leather pants. He knows his nightmares now will be Kurt’s expression when Blaine confessed._

_When he knows Kurt has finally, if fitfully, fallen to sleep, he turns his head, memorizes the shape of the back of Kurt’s head and neck and ear. Kurt is, truly, the most compassionate man Blaine has and will ever know – he’s letting Blaine stay the night, even in his very own bed! And Blaine is grateful, so grateful, to get this final chance to surround himself in Kurt’s scent. Because he knows now that, no matter how compassionate Kurt is, this isn’t going to be something they’ll be able to recover from._

_Heat is trapped in the chasm between their bodies, but all Blaine feels is cold._

~*~

Like most families, Blaine's is complicated. They are not very forthcoming with their affection, they do not consider embraces a valid expression of said affection, and they have very particular expectations. But they have his best interests at heart, and they support him in following his heart, even if they disapprove. Blaine has never worried about being disowned.

No, disowning was never a worry, but he didn’t expect his sexuality would drive a massive wedge between them. Full of childish bravado, there is a mere four days between him coming to the realization and him coming out with it to his parents. He is thirteen years old, he sits his parents down, and tells them, “Mom, Dad, I have something very important to tell you. It would mean a lot if you would continue to love and accept me as much as you do now.”

In years to come, he would pore over this moment of hesitation between his introduction and confession. Did his dad’s mouth tighten? If so, was it dread or just him breathing? When his mom recrossed her legs and repositioned her hands, was that because she was preparing herself for what she knew was coming?

“I’m gay,” he finishes, his voice cracking only from his pubescence and not from his nerves.

“Thank you for telling us, Blaine,” Dad says. Mom stands up and awkwardly puts her hand on his shoulder, and Blaine can’t help but look at her with wide, hopeful, scared eyes. She says, “Thank you for telling us.”

And then, by all appearances, their lives move on. Mom gets promoted and starts going on lots of business trips; gets promoted again and spends half her time in Chicago. Dad has always been a workaholic. Blaine tells his friends he’s gay, someone spreads it, and he gets assaulted; the police report goes nowhere and the next September, Blaine is starting his freshman year all over again at a new school, with uniforms and a strict no-bullying policy.

(There are the little moments which erode on Blaine’s soul: when Dad catches himself pointing out pretty girls; when Mom looks wistfully at wedding dresses in window shops and then sighs in Blaine’s direction; when they’re both so eager to drop the charges. What hurts the most is their ignorance.)

As the year goes on, Blaine recovers, both physically and emotionally. He is contained within himself more, but by the time summer rolls around again, he’s no longer pretending to smile.

“Glad to see you’re back to your old self again,” his dad says, although Blaine doesn’t think he’s ever been to see the Warblers perform once. “You’ve got your driver’s test coming up, right? We should build you a car this summer, just you and me.”

Blaine grins and agrees. He’s genuinely excited to spend time with his dad, who would spend hours in the park playing ball games with Cooper but eight years later when it came to Blaine was usually too busy. It starts off well – they spend six hours on the driveway in the summer heat, reading manuals and figuring out what the engine parts are. (That should have been Blaine’s first clue: his dad knows how to check oil and water levels, but he’s never in his entire life given a thought to the difference between carburetor and a camshaft.) Mom makes sure they have lunch and plenty of water, and despite his scrubbing Blaine goes to bed smelling of oil.

Three weekends later, Dad makes his first excuse.

By the end of the summer, the Chevy doesn’t even have a full engine, and the sheet protecting it from the elements is already starting to gather dust.

He doesn't even remember the last time he talked to Cooper.

~*~

To say Blaine is excited to begin his junior year is an understatement. Last year, he led the Warblers on most of their songs, helped to get them through to Regionals where they, unfortunately but understandably, lost to a group who had written their own songs. He’d made friends with so many people he’d lost track, people who don’t care about his sexuality. He’d even gone on a few dates, though it turned out his crush was unreciprocated.

So, his sophomore had been a success – and his junior year is going to be even better. He’s going to keep up his grades, join another club, hopefully get a boyfriend. He doesn’t need one, but as he falls asleep at night he imagines equally being on stage as an audience cheers him on and someone to hold his hand and kiss him (and make love to him, he adds to himself with a thrill as he comes on his stomach).

And, two weeks into the semester, there is a boy. Sebastian. He calls Blaine ‘sex on a stick’ and entrances Blaine with stories of Paris and makes Blaine blush with stories of Parisian boys.

“We could have a lot of fun together,” he says before Warbler practice, sitting thigh-against-thigh, his arm slung around the back of the seat but his fingers skimming Blaine’s shoulder. His breath and his body heat are so close and so warm and Blaine is seduced.

They rehearse for an hour with Sebastian brushing up against Blaine at every opportunity and smirking at Blaine when they’re on opposite sides of the room. Blaine feels almost dizzy by the end, and certainly so light he could fly. In the hubbub of everyone leaving, Blaine winds his way across the room. “Do you wanna go out tonight?” he asks. His heart is thumping in his chest, his hands clammy, but he manages to keep his expression relatively calm.

Sebastian grins, flicking his eyes over Blaine’s body in a way that leaves his skin tingling. “Make it tomorrow and you’ve got yourself a deal, superstar.”

Blaine’s imagination is already filling with visions of holding hands across a candle-lit table while a string quartet plays in the background, but then Sebastian leans closer, rests his hand on Blaine’s lower back, continues, “Leave the venue up to me,” and Blaine doubts the venue the taller boy has in mind is a fancy restaurant.

But he likes Sebastian so the next evening, he follows the other boy's directions and ends up in the parking lot of a gay bar. Sebastian gives him a fake ID with a wink and a smirk which makes Blaine feel simultaneously less and more nervous. And Sebastian holds (well, grabs) his hand, and buys him drinks, and dances with him until Blaine is happy and light-headed.

"You're so hot," Sebastian murmurs as he presses Blaine up against his car. Blaine pulls him in for a kiss. It's electric, lighting up Blaine's insides and sending heat ratcheting through his veins. He feels Sebastian hard against him and his own body responds in kind, all but collapsing against the door even as he grabs Sebastian's ass to press their clothed cocks closer together. "Fuck."

Blaine is surprised by how pleased he is that Sebastian's voice shakes. By how _powerful_ he feels. He's never been so hard, never so light-headed (never so drunk) – never so wanted. He clutches Sebastian's hair and meets kiss for kiss, thrust for thrust, until he’s dizzy with lust.

“Shall we move this inside?” he asks, aiming for coy, but his tongue feels to slow to make the tone. Sebastian groans, mutters something about his sexy schoolboy act, and pulls away long enough to allow Blaine to open the car door. But he doesn’t stop touching, groping Blaine’s ass and then moving his hands round to his crotch when Blaine’s moan cuts across the still parking lot.

Sebastian slams the door closed behind him, undoing the fly of his jeans as Blaine fumbles with his belt, and that’s how Blaine loses his virginity: to a boy he hardly knows, drunk off his face, in the back of his car in the parking lot of a gay bar.

~*~

The morning after, Blaine has the _worst_ hangover. He spends five minutes throwing up, wishes his mom were home to pet his hair, and then forces himself to make brunch, even though all he wants to do is go back to bed. He slowly munches on toast and sips a glass of water while the fried foods permeate the air. By the time he actually sits down to eat, he’s feeling halfway back to human.

He’s digging into his second rasher of bacon when last night starts returning to him. He’d let Sebastian give him drink after drink, eager to keep up and not look like a teenage virgin, and the later parts of the night are covered in an alcoholic haze, but he remembers being pressed against his car, remembers shirts being rucked up and pants being shoved down and Sebastian’s dick hard and hot and too-dry against his own, remembers coming over his stomach and Sebastian licking it up, remembers stumbling out a cab alone and to an empty house.

He been fantasized his first time for almost as long as he’d been masturbating. He’d imagined it slow, fast, penetrative, non-penetrative, with faceless boys his own age and to experienced young men – but he’d always believed that, whoever he had sex with, it would be someone Blaine loved with his whole heart. He doesn’t even know Sebastian’s last name.

Nausea washes over him, like an ocean flooding a rock pool, and Blaine’s already delicate stomach has him vomiting into the kitchen sink.

~*~

Blaine just focuses on his homework that weekend, ignores his phone when it vibrates, and tries to figure out how to just enjoy the memory, blurred as it is, of losing his virginity. Is he disappointed? Yeah, kind of. He's a big old romantic, more than he'd admit to his friends.

But, well . . . he'd made another boy _orgasm_. He thought he'd have to wait until college to find a guy. And, being realistic, how likely is he to find the love of his life in high school, anyway? What's wrong with a bit of fun, with getting some experience, with a hot, experienced guy? Nothing - and so, on Monday, when Sebastian saunters up to him and presses into his personal space, Blaine just grins.

"So Friday was fun," he says, as glib as he can manage with his dick already stirring. Sebastian smirks at him in response. Blaine almost feels as if the taller boy is laughing at him.

“Just ‘fun’? I’m offended.”

Blaine laughs, and then he glances down at Sebastian’s lips. He really wants to feel them against his own again, feel Sebastian’s tongue and his hands and more – god, he feels dizzy with how much he wants, now that he can. And now that Sebastian’s in front of him again, he can’t even remember why he felt so sick the other day, anyway.

“Do you wanna go to dinner tomorrow?” he asks, before he can talk himself out of it. His heart races and he struggles to keep his expression cool.

He can't stop either his heart or expression dropping when Sebastian pulls a grimace. "I don't do dates," he says. "I do clubs."

"Oh."

"Although..." Sebastian grins again, reaches out to tug on Blaine's tie. "You make this uniform really sexy. We make quite the pair. I'd be down for going out with you again."

"Just not to dinner."

Sebastian shrugs. "Not unless you're an ambassador."

Blaine almost says, _Actually, I am a student ambassador. I greet freshmen and meet potential donors on a regular basis._

But he's pretty sure the other boy would actually laugh at him this time, and he doesn't want to seem desperate. So he says nothing.

They do end up going out for coffee a few days later, with the Warblers as a group. The following Saturday, they go back to Scandals, which is as awesome and overwhelming as the first time. Blaine goes intending to only have one beer, but he gets friendly with a couple of drag queens between dances and they insist on buying him shots; he ends up giving Sebastian a blowjob round the corner from the entrance, and it's so hot he hardly even notices the taste of the latex, and then it takes all of about a minute for him to come all over Sebastian's hand. Sebastian blows him a few days later when he's at Sebastian's house, and twenty minutes later he's spread on the other boy's bed with a dick in his ass.

It's not exactly what Blaine had imagined. It's not romantic or affectionate or an expression of love. But it is hot, and it's a hell of a lot more fun than Blaine had imagined, and he wants more.

~*~

"Hey, Blaine, wait up!"

Blaine steps to the side of the corridor, out of the stream, and turns around. Shaun, a boy he knows from calculus, catches up to him, darting between around the other students to join Blaine against the wall.

“Hey, Shaun, what’s up?”

“Do you wanna get coffee sometime? Or dinner, maybe?”

“Sure.” Blaine switches his satchel to his other shoulder. “Is everything okay? I thought you were doing pretty well in calculus.”

“Oh. It’s, uh, actually, I – meant like a date.”

“Oh!” Blaine blinks a couple of times, and then he realizes he’s blushing and clears his throat. “Well,” he says, fiddling with his bag strap. He’s surprised (and simultaneously not surprised) to realize that turning down guys is a lot harder than turning down girls. “I’m flattered but I’m kind of with Sebastian.”

Shaun frowns. “You guys are exclusive?”

“We haven’t really . . . had a conversation about it or anything...”

“Oh, okay, well, I was just thinking, since my cousin was actually out with him the other night—”

Hurt and betrayal slice through Blaine’s chest (his stupid, loving, tender heart), and it must show on his face because Shaun trails off awkwardly and mutters a quick goodbye, and then he hurries off to lunch.

And Blaine feels so stupid. Sebastian said, outright, that he doesn’t date – and sure, what they’d been doing hadn’t exactly been _dating_ ; dancing, drinking, hooking up, yes, but not dating. Had he really thought that they’d been boyfriends? Had he really taken note of every shot and beer and cocktail that Sebastian had paid for and then thought of it as romantic? The night he’d gone to Sebastian’s house, there had been take out after, and Sebastian had fed Blaine at first, when his body was still sore in entirely new ways; he’d thought it sweet, but now, he remembers how many times Sebastian rolled his eyes until Blaine could handle the chopsticks himself, and immediately afterwards he’d been – essentially – kicked out.

He can’t face the cafeteria. The humiliation burns his skin, feels scarred into his face for everyone to see and mock – they’d surely known the entire time that Sebastian was only playing him.

Stupid, naive, romantic fool.

He spends the period hiding in one of the common rooms, a textbook open in front of him. He stares at it blankly as he plays over every moment, every one of Sebastian’s expressions, every touch and kiss. He knew something had felt off, in his own emotions if nothing else, and he berates himself for that, too.

The bell rings and he seriously considers skipping class – going to the nurse, or just walking out of school. He almost convinces himself to, as he packs up his bag; but, in the end, he's never actually purposefully missed school before, always had to be forced to stay home from school, and he won't let Sebastian ruin his perfect record.

There's no Warblers rehearsal after school that day, for which Blaine is relieved. He manages to get to his car without being stopped for conversation, throws his bag into the driver's seat, and his pencils spill onto the floor. He doesn't even notice until he's already pulled out of the parking lot and driven away from the school, hands gripped tightly around the wheel, body stiff.

He can still feel a phantom ache from fucking Sebastian. Sebastian fucking him? He hadn't been exactly _passive_.

(Would he feel any better if he had been? Or if he'd realized from the beginning that all Sebastian wanted was sex? Because this . . . He's been embarrassed before, wearing stupid costumes singing at theme parks and hitting on a guy who wasn't even out, but he has never felt so degraded, so less than a person.)

Without even a conscious thought, Blaine jerks the wheel, pulling the worst U-turn in the history of sober U-turns. It occurs to him, halfway through the drive, to turn on his 'fierce' playlist, and by the time he reaches Sebastian's house, his humiliation has transformed into indignation. He's out of the car so fast, it bounces against the frame a few times; but the sound is lost in Blaine beating the flat of his fist against Sebastian’s front door.

“Sebastian!” he shouts. “I know you're home. Open the door.”

The boy himself opens the door, no blazer, loose tie, top three buttons of his shirt undone, holding a pear. Half of Blaine still wants to bite him, turn this passion from anger to sex, and he hates himself for it.

“Well, well, well,” Sebastian says, a grin forming slowly on his face. “Blaine. This is quite the surprise.”

“Were you playing me?” To his horror, his voice wobbles and cracks, and pressure begins to build at the back of his throat. “Was all this just some – game to you?”

“What's life without a bit of fun, killer?” A condescending sort out sympathy contorts Sebastian's face. Blaine wonders how he ever found him attractive. (He wonders how he _still_ finds him attractive.) “Oh, did you think we were actually dating? Awkward.”

“Fuck you.” He tries to spit the words out, fill them with venom instead of heartbreak, but his anger no longer encompasses his hurt. He turns his back on Sebastian's grin and storms back to his car. He slams the door behind him, isn't fast enough to miss Sebastian's mocking call of, “Call me any time!” and somehow manages to make it home before he lets free his tears of anger and hurt.

~*~

Over the next few weeks, Sebastian becomes increasingly unbearable. What starts off as smirking at Blaine from across the room turns into always making sure Blaine is aware of his presence in a room while seemingly ignoring him. It drives Blaine crazy, though no one would know to look at him; he's had almost eighteen years of practice at ignoring assholes, thanks to the more conservative members of his extended family, so it's hardly an effort at all to keep his affable smile fixed in place as he talks to his friends.

He cracks when Sebastian stands up at the beginning of rehearsal and says, “ _Esteemed_ council,” in the Machiavellian, faux concerned way only a child of an attorney or politician can instinctively know, “while I value everything you have done for us, it cannot be ignored that the Warblers have not reached Nationals since 1962.”

“What's your point, Warbler Sebastian?” asks Thad, who is now the senior head of the council.

“I think we should move to alter the leadership of the club to a singular captain.”

The room bursts into cacophony. Blaine has a feeling he's the only one who sees the smirk on Sebastian's lips, and he leaps to his feet.

“Absolutely not! The council has existed since the Warblers' _inception_.”

“Weren't you suggesting a change of wardrobe just last week?”

“That was to liven up our performance,” Blaine responds hotly. And he knows, he _knows_ , that he's playing into Sebastian's plan, whatever it is, but he can't just sit back and watch Sebastian ruin something so important to him. “What you are suggesting is to break a generations-long tradition!”

“All the greatest innovators are great _because_ they broke tradition,” Sebastian says, not looking away from Blaine's eyes. “If we want to be remembered by future generations of Warblers, we have to change things up a bit. Something more than a different color tie.”

“Warbler Blaine, Warbler Sebastian, please sit down!” Thad hits the gavel against the desk until the room has settled. He frowns when Sebastian remains standing.

“Warbler Thad, I ask for a chance to prove myself, at least. Let me have until Regionals – and if we don't make it through, only then discard my idea entirely.”

And Blaine can only watch in dismay as Thad pauses, and then says, “The council shall discuss this matter further in private, and then we shall put forward a vote.” This time, the gavel knocking against the desk sounds like a funeral bell.

The rest of rehearsal goes by without event, and Blaine manages to put back on his genial front. Afterwards, though, he begs out of conversation with Nick and chases down Sebastian, grips his upper arm and pulls him down an empty corridor.

“Finally, though I didn't peg you for a quickie in an empty classroom.”

“What's your game now, Sebastian?” Blaine demands, hoping the warmth on his cheeks isn't a blush and the only acknowledgement of the other boy's words.

“Why, I care about the Warblers, of course. Wouldn't you like to have a Nationals win under your belt before you graduate?”

“And I suppose this has nothing to do with you wanting to take over the most popular club in the school?”

“Well, I'm counting on your gratitude—“ Sebastian grins, slipping his hands under Blaine's blazer to run tuck his fingers under Blaine's belt. Blaine slaps him away and then steps back, glaring at him.

“I'm not going to – have sex with you,” he says, “not if you help us win Nationals, or even if you saved my grandma's life.”

“That's what you say now.”

“Just leave me and the council alone,” Blaine says, cutting his hand emphatically through the air. Sebastian doesn't say anything, just laughs, but Blaine can still hear the sound the next morning when he sees Shaun in calculus. He asks him out – and they go on a date, a real date which is exciting and fun and entirely PG. (Well, mostly PG; their kiss at the end gets a little bit heated, probably pushing the rating up to a PG-13.)

It takes a few dates for Blaine to realize that he doesn't really feel a connection – Shaun is really nice, but he's read enough romance novels to know that if 'nice' is the best he can come up with, their relationship definitely won't last through the winter break. They're definitely exclusive, though, and Blaine likes having a boyfriend, and even more likes _being_ a boyfriend. Even if Shaun doesn't like Audrey Hepburn.

“But – how can you dislike Audrey Hepburn?” Blaine splutters. Shaun looks at him as if he's insane, which is fair enough, Blaine supposes, considering he's looking at Shaun in the same way. “She's a goddess! Have you even seen any of her movies?”

Shaun shrugs, and then takes a bite of his lasagne. “I tried once. It was kinda boring. And they sang, just, way too much.”

Blaine seriously considers breaking up with him there and then.

(Later, he'll wish he had.)

~*~

Blaine feels like he's spent most of his life watching his parents while he sits at the breakfast bar. When he was a boy, he would watch his mom make breakfast, and his dad would stand on the opposite side and let Blaine help with that day's newspaper puzzles. Dad was really good at the weekend cryptic crosswords, and Blaine got really good at doing sudoku in his head. These are some of his most precious memories of his parents; as he got older, his parents got busier and busier, until before school was practically the only time he saw his parents in the same room. After he transferred to Dalton, he hardly saw them at all, Dad working overtime and Mom always on trips. It's to afford the exorbitant school fees. (Most of the time, he manages to believe it.)

He's sitting at the breakfast bar when Mom comes into kitchen, surrounded by a gentle cloud of expensive perfume as she wraps a thin scarf loosely around her neck.

“Morning, Mom,” he says.

“Good morning, dear.” She sticks a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, takes out a mug and smiles at Blaine when he pours from the coffee machine for her. “You look exhausted. Is everything okay?”

Blaine sips from his own coffee to buy himself some time. He's never talked to any of his family about boys – Dad would be completely unreceptive anyway, but he's never quite felt comfortable discussing that topic with Mom despite how far she's come.

But surely his mother would want to comfort him in heartbreak, even if the cause is another boy (and even if he keeps his being sexually active a secret).

“Well—“ he says, at the same time her phone beeps with a text message. He watches her answer it, her expression scrunch up in frustration, and manages to keep his own from falling.

“I'm sorry, Blaine, I've got to go to Chicago. Lisa's _completely_ screwed up an important account and I need to sort it out. Will you and Dad be alright on your own?”

“Sure, Mom,” he says as she gulps down her coffee. “Love you.”

She smiles at him, which is the closest she gets to kissing his hair nowadays, and then leaves without even grabbing her toast. Blaine picks up his father's long-discarded newspaper and flips to the puzzle section.

Is it too much to wish his parents were around more? That they notice when he needs them? He's just gone through his first real boyfriend and his first real heartbreak and neither of his parents – nor even his brother – know a single thing.

He craves for a hug from his mother, the sort that will make him feel six years old again, that will make him feel cared for. He longs for his dad to take him out bowling to get his mind off his now-ex, to tell him there are plenty of other fish in the sea, no matter how clichéd it is, the same way he did with Cooper. His parents aren't big on physical affection and they're awkward about vocal support, but Blaine needs them like a baby.

Unfortunately, he was dumped in the middle of the week, so he has to go to school. Yesterday was terrible, keeping up appearances and pretending he was fine and not letting himself get passive aggressive because Dalton gentlemen are polite to a fault; but today he has calculus.

To his surprise, his day isn't . . . awful. It sucks, to be sure, and he feels terribly used. “I just don't see us going anywhere,” Shaun had said, which is fair enough because Blaine feels – felt – the same, but they're in _high school_. They're not soul mates, and there's nothing wrong with messing around in a relationship.

His smile is a little less fake than yesterday, although he doesn't manage to smile at all in calculus. Shaun, the asshole, doesn't seem bothered by their break up at all.

And then, the puce-colored icing on the overdone cake of this awful week, Sebastian finds him alone on Thursday before school.

“What do you want?” Blaine asks, folding his arms in front of his chest and glaring at the taller boy in lieu of an impolite tone.

“Is that any way to treat an old friend?” Sebastian rolls his eyes when Blaine doesn't bite. “Fine, whatever. I came over to offer you a night of alcohol to forget that fine ass that dumped you.”

“I'm not gonna sleep with you again, Sebastian.”

“At least I was honest to you from the beginning.” Sebastian raises his eyebrows, and Blaine's glare falters in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Don't you think it's a little suspicious he dumped you after you fucked?”

“You . . .”

But he has nothing to say. And he is pissed off, fed up of being used, so that weekend he goes to Scandals with Sebastian (takes a cab, arranges to be picked up again at one am, wouldn't trust Sebastian enough to get in a car with him ever again) and then he gets _drunk_. He dances – mostly by himself, though he shimmies at his drag queen friends from a few weeks ago; he makes out with Sebastian, and possibly a stranger as well, but he's too wasted to see straight and too fucking happy to care that he's too wasted; he cries all over Carla ( _“I loved you in that movie, you were so great, where'd Connie go, is she happy with Mulder? Your eyes are so pretty, so p—. . .”_ ); he dances again. Or maybe not. He completely blacks out, and doesn't wake up until two in the afternoon the next day, smelling of puke, bar, and stale clothes.

God, he is never going to drink again.

~*~

“So.” Someone slams Blaine's locker shut, and he's not even finished swapping his books round. Rude, ungentlemanly – and Blaine's patience for the day is already being tested, because not only has Sebastian been allowed to captain the Warblers until Regionals but so far everyone seems to actually _like_ it. “Blaine Anderson.”

“Yes. I'm sorry, do I know you?” The guy doesn't look familiar, so he's probably a senior. Blaine's good with names and faces, a thing he's always been proud of, he knows everyone in his grade, and the guy doesn't look young enough to be a sophomore or freshman.

“No, but what difference does it make in the end?”

Blaine smiles, though it feels weak and confused. It's not unusual that students he doesn't know know him, as big-headed as that sounds, because of the popularity of the Warblers and Blaine's status as the main lead.

“In the end,” the senior continues, “all that matters is that you've got legendary lips, I've got a cock, and Mr. Mason's room is always empty at lunch.”

Blaine gapes, and he's – stunned, confused, insulted, outraged, embarrassed, thrown completely off-kilter, strangely close to crying . . .

“Excuse me?” he splutters, and then, because his brain has stopped but his mouth isn't finished, “Did you just suggest – at _school_?”

“Sebastian told me about the two of you after Warbling practice.”

“The Warblers.” He shakes his head, steps back, and glares at the senior as best he can while still feeling so affronted. “And – _no_! That's – that's disgusting, I can't believe you would just—“

“Yeah, calm down, I get it.” The senior looks cross, as if _he_ 's the one who's been slighted in this whole awful exchange.

~*~

(1) New Message

_Warbler Blaine, I've heard some rumors about some . . . extracurricular activities you're doing in the rehearsal room. I didn't believe them at first but the more I hear, the more shocked I am. Please tell me you aren't using the room for such dalliances, as they are neither proper Warbler not Dalton behavior._

_I hope your junior year is going well. I'm shocked by Warbler Sebastian's decision to take you off lead in all but one song, but I'm also surprised that Thad allowed him to break such a long-standing tradition. I suppose things will be back to normal once you lose Regionals, so I'm pleased you will still have next year to lead the Warblers to victory._

_All the best,  
Wes_

~*~

Blaine doesn't know how there are so many rumors about him – he doesn't even know _why_. He's slept with Sebastian – who has quite the reputation himself, although as far as Blaine knows, the rumors are both mostly true and propagated by himself – and he's had sex with a guy with whom he was in an exclusive relationship. That's it. He _certainly_ hasn't done anything with a member of staff!

He'd thought Dalton would be better than his old high school. And it is, in a way: he isn't being beat up and there aren't cruel notes stuffed in his locker and no one's stealing his stuff. But with every joke his friends make, with every guy who approaches him believing the rumors, with every student who looks at him uncomfortably, he's reminded that Dalton isn't some magical haven of acceptance.

If it gets physical, he decides, or if anyone starts calling him names (to his face – he's pretty sure there's already some name-calling behind his back), that's when he'll go to a teacher. But until then, it's nothing he can't handle. He's dealt with so much worse, was basically ostracized by the end of his stay at his previous school except for among the three other gay kids. What are a few rumors compared to that?

(He's so tired of fighting alone.)

~*~

Blaine quits the Warblers a week before Regionals. He knows it's playing into _exactly_ what Sebastian wants – despite the rumors, Blaine still knows how to work his charm and he's much, much nicer than the other boy, and he still retains some fair amount of popularity. It frustrates him and vexes him and pisses him _right the fuck off_ , and he doesn't at all know why Sebastian is determined to ruin him anyway, and he's actually heartbroken in losing the Warblers . . . but the new captain is seemingly doing everything in his power to make Blaine quit.

So he does.

And once the Warblers lose Regionals, it seems an entirely new set of rumors explodes. 'Sebastian is a better performer than Blaine and he's jealous, that's why he quit.' 'He wanted to take over the Warblers himself so he sabotaged the Warblers' chance at Nationals.' 'Blaine's jealous that Sebastian dumped him.' 'Sebastian kicked him out for fucking, like, all the opposing choirs.' 'He got caught messing round with a teacher, but his parents covered it up.'

Some of Blaine's closest friends begin to believe them. A few even stop hanging out with him, and with the rest he loses the sense of ease and camaraderie. He gets comments on his wall and in his inbox – 'manwhore', 'slut', 'are you actually a gigolo', explicit ones that make his entire face burn, and one person had even messaged him with 'I didn't care when you were keeping your gay to yourself but now you're promiscuous like all the others gays and spreading round the AIDs fairy'. Conversations stop when he enters a room, and freshmen look at him like he's a carnival show.

(He'd like to tell himself he's out of practice, that eventually his skin will grow thick again and the words and stares and laughs will bounce off his impenetrable skin . . . but he hadn't even developed an armor the first time round, crying himself to sleep most nights until he started to believe the words, and then he just felt numb. He's always carried his heart in his hands.)

By the end of the year, he's deleted his Facebook account, and the only place he feels like no one cares is Scandals. His drag queen friends buy him a couple of beers and dance with him when he doesn't want strangers grinding on him; the only thing that stops it from being perfect is – well, the quality, for one, because the place is kind of a dive – but also the presence of Sebastian.

(Maybe, one day, Blaine will be able to add that to the ever-growing list of things he's been able to force himself to believe.)

The summer between his junior and senior years is one of the loneliest of his life, second only to the summer before he started at Dalton. He goes to Chicago with his mom at the beginning of the summer, even though he has to explore by himself half the time, but otherwise his parents' work schedules remain the same. Of the friends he has left, many of them go on vacation with their families; he goes to the few parties he's invited to, but he can't stay for long. He has a job performing at Six Flags (it feels so good again to perform, to sing and act and forget Blaine the Gay Kid and become Blaine the Star for a while, even to a crowd of hyper children and tired parents) but otherwise his days stretch long and empty and solitary ahead of him.

(Cooper comes to visit. It's only for a week. He goes to every one of Blaine's shows, and Blaine wishes he could be glad, but his brother has nothing but critique after critique, and Blaine is glad when he goes back to LA. He's actually glad to have the house to himself again.

(He is.)

The day he first hooks up with a stranger he met at a bar is the twentieth of July. For the duration, he feels like the center of the world, like he matters, like he's admired. Immediately after, he feels satisfied . . . but eventually, the empty, lonely ache returns, and, well, he has that sexy schoolboy charm.

(Dalton has open days in August, for both potential students and donors. Blaine is required to go as a student ambassador and prefect, and he puts on a smile and shakes hands and has a quick speech. Last year, he'd been part of the Warblers; this year, he hears the first note and excuses himself to the bathroom and hides until his hands stop shaking and he can stand the sight of himself in the mirror.)

~*~

He'd hoped that, with the end of vacation, so too would end the rumors about him. No such luck. If anything, they've gotten _worse_ , and Blaine has a heavy dread in the pit of his stomach. It weighs him down as the weeks wear on, and his smile becomes ever more fixed. His first few weeks back are incredibly busy, settling into his senior year routine, writing his college applications, and helping out lost and/or concerned freshmen. They're more involved than all the previous freshmen he's worked with (which, granted, is not very many, given that this is only his third year), which he's pleased about, until—

“You've got quite a group of admirers.”

Blaine looks up from his textbook to Chuck, one of his 'study buddies' for Economics. They've been getting a headstart on their syllabus. He's glad for the distraction; Econ is not one of his strengths. He already misses Advanced Politics. “Hm?”

“Your dedicated group of freshmen.” Chuck grins. “They follow you round like you're their mother hen, or they're your groupies.”

“You're getting your metaphors mixed up,” Blaine says, shaking his head. “I'm not a mother hen or a rock star.”

“They've all got greenie crushes on you.” Chuck laughs, a loud honk of a laugh (a laugh which isn't directed at Blaine), and Blaine can't help but join in.

It's nice.

~*~

Blaine and Chuck hang out more over the following few weeks. Mostly, it's to talk about Economics, which Blaine struggles with while Chuck gets As even on pop quizzes. Blaine asks about the rugby team (“a ruffian's sport played by gentlemen,” Chuck calls it with a sly grin, “unlike football, which is a gentleman's sport played by ruffians.” Blaine could listen to his accent all day) and Chuck asks about polo. Pretty quickly, even when they're studying in a larger group, the two of them will stay behind ten, twenty minutes and alternate between conversation and Chuck quizzing Blaine on demand and supply.

After one such afternoon, Blaine is rambling on about horse upkeep. Chuck is listening, for the most part. His eyes start to glaze over every now and then but he forces himself back into focus, and Blaine's stomach squirms pleasantly. He feels his face heat up in response, keeps on talking and gesticulating, until they finally pack up their work.

“So, uh—“ Blaine clears his throat and smoothes a hand down his pants “—do you wanna go out with me sometime?”

“Oh.” Chuck stops walking, and Blaine only just manages to stop his face from falling. “Well, that's, um, flattering of you—“

“Oh god, you're not even gay are you?”

“Well, no, I'm bi, but Blaine . . .” Chuck hesitates, and then he cautiously pats Blaine's arm. His touch is so light that Blaine doesn't even feel it through the thick, stiff blazer. “You're a nice guy, and I'm sure you're a good friend, but I'm not ready for more physical stuff. It's lame, I know—“

“No, it's not lame.” Blaine doesn't notice he's reached his arm out until Chuck moves away. “It's fine, I don't mind—“

“Sorry. See you tomorrow, Blaine.”

Chuck hurries off before Blaine can say anything else. He doesn't turn around, so Blaine can see his ears are bright red while he runs away as if Blaine is contagious.

As if he believes whatever rumors are floating round now.

Blaine tries calling Chuck that night – to apologize, to assure him that he's fine as friends, to confess how achingly lonely he feels to someone who seems to care about him, he doesn't know. The call goes to voicemail. For a moment, Blaine thinks he might cry; he would welcome it, he thinks, because the tears might warm up his cold face. But the truth is that he's too numb, that when he heard the recording of Chuck's voice he'd begun to shut himself away; unable to hide his heart away in his chest, hidden behind flesh and bone and steel bars, he curls himself round it, his precious, tender, foolish heart, his face in his knees and his heart beating gently in his cupped hands.

~*~

The next day, Chuck doesn't meet Blaine's eye once. He's civil and polite in that detached way of the upper class. Blaine's heart aches. Honestly, he doesn't even know if he ever had a crush on the other boy, even when asking him out; he still desires, yearns, longs for someone to call his own and to be someone's in return, and Chuck has been so nice the past few weeks.

After their study session, Chuck is the first one out of the room. A couple of the other boys watch, look at Blaine, smirk at each other, and he knows what they're thinking.

He wonders if there are rumors about him and Chuck.

He wonders if Chuck cares.

Blaine doesn't think as he leaves the study room, just picks up his bag and nods at his classmates and lets his feet wander slowly through the corridors. He feels like he's walking through thick mud, each step an effort to pull his foot up and forward.

He ends up outside the rehearsal room. He hasn't been back here since he quit, the thought of coming back sending his emotions reeling and heart skittering across the floor.

It's empty now. Blaine considers the metaphor but decides it's too melodramatic, even for him, and makes his way to the piano in the corner of the room. He lifts the lid, kisses the keys with his fingers. He starts to play, a mournful, wretched rearrangement of a Katy Perry ballad. “ _Before you met me, I was alright . . .”_

He leans his entire body into the keys and pedals, pours his being into the notes, loses himself in song the way he hasn't in what feels like an age.

“ _Let's go all the way tonight, no regrets, just_ —“ His voice cracks on the first chorus, and he stops. The chord jars unfinished in the air, and when it fades the silence comes crashing back over him, submerging him in a wave. The room isn't empty anymore, full of the shards of broken dreams and broken trust (but not, he thinks, a broken heart, because his is bruised and damaged but not broken, not yet) – and it is all too big, gaping wide like the gap between his body and the flimsy construction around his heart.

He needs to feel, he needs to turn off his emotions; he needs to lock himself away, he needs to reach out and touch someone. He needs to not be alone in his big, empty house and his bedroom full of trophies for a boy who is truly a failure.

His phone is out and the text is sent before he has a chance to reconsider.

_Can I come over?_

Blaine moves from the piano, walks quickly to his car, and doesn't respond to the chime until he's buckled himself in.

_Anytime for you, killer ;)_

He hadn't expected anything else, to be honest. He hates himself a little – a lot – but mostly he just doesn't care. Not right now. Or maybe he cares too much, and all his emotions are so muddled and loud that Blaine can't think. And it's been so long since he's been to Scandals.

When Sebastian opens the door, Blaine kisses him. It's hard and forceful, so different from any of their previous kisses, from any of the kisses Blaine's experienced. Sebastian gives back as good as he's got, and by the time they pull apart, they're both out of breath, disheveled, and red in the face.

“Well—“ Sebastian begins, but Blaine interrupts him.

“No talking,” he says, pulling Sebastian down again.

“I can get behind _that_.” Sebastian grabs his ass, grinning – and Blaine really, really doesn't want them to talk or banter or flirt or _whatever_. He wants to be filled up, physically if emotionally he isn't quite able. He drags them up to Sebastian's room, fingers himself open with his head tipped towards the ceiling and getting goosebumps where Sebastian's mouth trails over him.

“Like this,” Blaine says, flipping over onto his stomach and pushing himself onto hands and knees, getting a petty, vindictive sort of feeling when he wipes the lube off his hands onto Sebastian's pillows. Sebastian says something, Blaine doesn't care what; he fucks himself back on Sebastian's cock, too full too fast and it burns, and Blaine savors it. He keeps urging Sebastian faster, harder, _harder_ until the other boy finally stops talking, and it's good, it's so good, and for a while, Blaine forgets that he's anything at all.

~*~

He begins to regret it even as he wipes his come on Sebastian's other pillow.

~*~

Of course, the rumors get worse. Only this time, they're all true – Blaine hadn't been thinking ahead, hadn't been thinking at all, so he goes to school the day after and everything's okay, his ass throbbing when he sits down and successfully hiding a limp between classes. But it seems that by lunchtime, everyone knows anyway; he can feel them studying his walk, hear them sniggering behind his back.

He deletes Sebastian's number from his phone and vows never to talk to him again. Already, Sebastian is turning into a bad habit, and he doesn't want to spend the rest of his senior year succumbing to temptation.

He deals with the jeers, more overt than ever; he deals with the stares, with the almost-taunts; he keeps his head down and works extra hard on all his assignments and college applications and he deals with it.

Wednesday the thirtieth of October starts off as any other day: he shower, gels, dresses, picks up a pear for breakfast and throws it out when he gets to Dalton, keeps his head down in class and tries not to visibly react when he overhears people talking in the halls. At lunch, he hides away in a study room, mechanically takes out his lunch, his Economics textbook, and pretends he's studying as he eats.

Unusually, he's disturbed. He catches movement out the corner of his eye and his head jerks up, startled. A boy steps into the room. Blaine doesn't recognize him, which is also unusual, because there's no way this guy is younger than him.

Still, he asks, “Do you wanna use the room?”

“No,” the boy says softly. His voice is high, lyrical, beautiful even with its dull edge. It strikes something deep within Blaine's chest, and he comes out of his head to pay more attention. “No, it's fine. I was just . . .”

He looks like he hasn't slept in days. And he's looking at Blaine like . . . like he's something to be wary of. His arms are tucked around his stomach, his body turned away, looking at Blaine almost as if he's dangerous; and yet the way he doesn't look away, the way his eyes linger on Blaine's face, dart away, come back to linger – that's something else entirely, though Blaine doesn't know what.

“You don't go here, do you?” he asks, pointedly sweeping his eyes down the boy's clothes, smiling when he meets his eyes again.

“Not anymore,” the boy answers, sharp and precise. Blaine starts to feel as though the other boy doesn't want to be here at all.

“Well, why on earth would you come back?”

Panic flashes across the boy's face, and discomfort follows behind. “Glee club. Spying. Sectionals are coming up.”

The reminder doesn't hurt, not like it would have done a few weeks ago: rather than a white hot branding iron, it feels like a wound that's only just beginning to scar.

He manages to keep his tone light and relatively glib as he answers, “Yeah, it's about that time of year, though I'm afraid you've made a waste of a trip; the Warblers rehearse tomorrow.”

“Aren't you one of them?”

Blaine wishes he would stop poking. “Not anymore,” he echoes. “The captain and I had a falling out last year so it was part ways or turn the practice room into a battle zone.” He forces a laugh, somehow. The boy's jaw twitches, his body tensing. It makes sense, Blaine thinks. If he used to attend Dalton, he surely knows that the Warblers used to be run by a council rather than a captain. “Anyway, if you want to try again on Friday, their practice room is just down the hall.”

“Those boys,” he says, quick as if the words were wrenched out of him, “in the hallway before.”

Blaine's good mood slips.

“You, uh, you heard that?”

“They were being kind of loud.” He almost sounds apologetic. He actually sounds confused. “They – were talking about you? You looked kind of upset when you went past me but I don't understand why you would sleep with someone you're not dating or-or—“

“People say a lot of crap,” Blaine says, anger trickling through the cracks in his mask. Anger at everyone who spreads the rumors and believes them, anger at his friends for abandoning him, anger at the teachers for doing nothing about it, anger at this boy for judging him, anger at himself for . . .

“They do,” the boy says, not judgmental in the slightest. Blaine looks at him, sees the _care_ in the other boy's face, and his heart starts to stir. “What happened to the zero-tolerance policy?”

Blaine shrugs, feeling awkward now that the anger has faded away (now that he's starting to want to know this boy, why he looks so fragile, what his favorite songs are, even though shouldn't he know better by now?). “If they don't say anything to me . . .” They never say anything _to_ him; but some of them speak loudly while they know he's within earshot, and that's worse. “The teachers can't to anything about rumors, especially if no one remembers the source.”

He still hasn't gone to a teacher. He can't imagine how they'd be able to help him anyway, not if his old teachers couldn't (wouldn't) even stop shoving in the hallways.

And he can't help but watch this boy, who is pale and beautiful and caring. There are bags under his eyes, the only flaw on his smooth skin; a few light freckles dotting his face. Biting his lips draws Blaine's attention to them, pink and shapely, a fuller curve to the lower; his hair swept up away from his forehead, almost regal.

He's breathtaking, perhaps even more so in his fragility, like a delicately thin china plate.

Blaine's expecting the boy to make his excuses now and leave, breaking Blaine's heart which loves too easily. Instead, the boy surprises him, comes closer and holds out his hand, and he says, “Hand me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I'm giving you my number.”

Knocked entirely off balance, Blaine takes him phone out of his bag and passes it over on autopilot. He watches the boy, his face and features, hoping that this might mean . . . _surely_ it means . . .

The boy hands the phone back, and Blaine can't bring himself to turn the screen off straight away. He looks at his new contact, ignoring the number completely in favor of reading the name.

Kurt Hummel.

Brave and strong and fragile.

It suits him perfectly.

He tears his eyes away from the screen and gets caught in Kurt's eyes, so close now that he can start to see nuance in the color. What looks blue from afar has elements of green and brown. He wants to stand up, get closer to those eyes and see if he can count all the colors.

“Thank you, Kurt,” he says, and hopes he doesn't sound like a lovestruck fool.

“Just text me whenever,” Kurt says. He's backing out of the room already, but slowly, as if he's torn between leaving and staying. That's what Blaine hopes, anyway, hopes he isn't reading things that don't exist.

“Yeah,” Blaine says in an exhale, a smile – a real, true, happy smile, for the first time in what must be a few weeks at least but feels like years – on his face as the other boy exits the room.

Blaine allows himself to soak in this feeling for the rest of his lunch period, this floating feeling of bliss. He flicks idly through his textbook, eats his lunch, stares at the new contact in his phone as he absentmindedly traces his fingers along his bottom lip.

He wonders how Kurt lips taste.

~*~

_He gets out of bed soon after dawn, slips carefully out of the sheets so as not to disturb his—to disturb Kurt. (Kurt isn't his anything, anymore. They haven't talked about it, have hardly said a word to each other since the park, but he knows.)_

_He closes the curtain behind him and stands just outside it for a long time, listening to Kurt breathe, listening to the two sets behind Rachel's curtain. He looks at the loft, taking it in, the design finally starting to come together. He wonders if he'll ever see the finished product; he doubts it._

_He passes the couch without looking at it. He already has enough furniture on which he can imagine curling up with Kurt; he doesn't need this one, this ghost of a future which won't be his._

_One day, Kurt might be his friend again, if Kurt can forgive him. He doesn't know how to not be in love with Kurt, but he'll take whatever Kurt will give him._

_He makes himself some coffee, needs a boost if he's going to force himself to leave the apartment, leave Kurt, perhaps for good. He sits at the table and stares down into the liquid and pretends he can see his reflection. There is none, of course, because Blaine would look away if there were; he hasn't been able to meet his own eyes in days._

_Kurt comes out of his room and Blaine can't look away. He'll look until Kurt tells him to stop. He looks exhausted and concerned. He doesn't stop staring at Blaine either. Blaine apologizes for taking the coffee. Kurt asks him when his flight leaves. And then – and then—_

_And then Kurt's asking him to stay. Tears swim in Blaine's vision, blurring everything until they start to fall and he can see Kurt again. See Kurt as he sits down across from Blaine and reaches out and takes Blaine's hand, and Blaine is so overwhelmed that all he can do is sit and stare and cradle Kurt's hands between his own. They're not getting back together, Kurt says, and Blaine knew it and he deserves it but it still hurts._

_Then Kurt says, “But I still love you,” and Blaine can only return it, chokes out, “I love you too,” chokes out Kurt's name, before he begins to cry in earnest. And Kurt – his brave, strong, fragile, beautiful, loving Kurt – pulls Blaine into his arms._

_Kurt had said that he can't forgive Blaine yet, but Blaine knows that that's what this hug is: forgiveness, and hope, and home._

**Author's Note:**

> There were going to be two more parts to this 'verse titled (in order) 'Even If It Hurts' and 'Stay', both from Blaine's POV, but I can't for the life of me remember what they were going to be about. :( But I _do_ remember how I intended to end the 'verse: parallel!Kurt, having read the letter from original!Kurt, goes in search of Blaine with the intention of verifying said letter, and bumps into him on The Staircase. Totally serendipitous. (Parallel!Klaine have a happy ending too, although the route is obviously a bit different.)
> 
> Although this doesn't tell the whole of Black Dust from Blaine's POV, I hope it was worth the wait. Thank you for your patience, and thank you everyone for reading. :)


End file.
